Kitabı oku: «The Landry Brothers»
“He’s threatened to blow up the station if you don’t go on the eleven o’clock news,” Chandler said.
“He also said he’d kill another one of your patients,” he added.
“I’ll do it,” Molly said, ignoring Chandler’s harsh, disapproving look. “He could kill another innocent person. I don’t want that to happen.”
“There has to be a better option. Molly, I don’t like this.” He reached out and allowed his fingertip to trace the line of her jaw. The look in his eyes increased her pulse tenfold. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he murmured.
Molly reached up and covered his hand with hers. “This—the broadcast? Or this—me?”
Tilting his head slightly to the right, Molly’s breath caught as his head dipped toward hers. His mouth hovered above hers as he whispered, “I look at you and all I can think of is this….”
Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,
This July, Intrigue brings you six sizzling summer reads. They’re the perfect beach accessory.
* We have three fantastic miniseries for you. Film at Eleven continues THE LANDRY BROTHERS by Kelsey Roberts. Gayle Wilson is back with the PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD in Take No Prisoners. And B.J. Daniels finishes up her MCCALLS’ MONTANA series with Shotgun Surrender.
* Susan Peterson brings you Hard Evidence, the final installment in our LIPSTICK LTD. promotion featuring stealthy sleuths. And, of course, we have a spine-tingling ECLIPSE title. This month’s is Patricia Rosemoor’s Ghost Horse.
* Don’t miss Dana Marton’s sexy stand-alone title, The Sheik’s Safety. When an American soldier is caught behind enemy lines, she’ll fake amnesia to guard her safety, but there’s no stopping the sheik determined on winning her heart.
Enjoy our stellar lineup this month and every month!
Sincerely,
Denise O’Sullivan
Senior Editor
Harlequin Intrigue
Film at Eleven
Kelsey Roberts
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kelsey Roberts has penned more than twenty novels, won numerous awards and nominations, and landed on bestseller lists, including USA TODAY and the Ingrams Top 50 List. She has been featured in the New York Times and the Washington Post, and makes frequent appearances on both radio and television. She is considered an expert in why women read and write crime fiction, as well as an excellent authority on plotting and structuring the novel.
She resides in south Florida with her family.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Chandler Landry—Popular news anchor, and hometown hero, too good-looking for his own good. His complacent life becomes complicated and challenging when he meets Molly Jameson, then finds himself becoming the story on the eleven o’clock news, instead of reporting it.
Molly Jameson, M.D.—A psychiatrist with issues of her own. Her quiet, carefully controlled life becomes a media circus when she meets the fascinating Chandler Landry, and a murderer pulls her into his deranged and deadly game.
Peter Geller—A fanatic with a mission… Could it be murder?
Gavin Templesman, M.D.—A respected professor of psychiatry. Molly’s mentor and Chandler’s friend. But could he also be a killer?
Verna Geller—She’s lost her head worrying over her son, but at this stage in her life there’s nothing she can do to help him.
L. S. Wyatt—Molly’s favorite author. But does he have a killer secret?
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Molly Jameson considered ways to kill herself.
Figuratively at least.
She wasn’t shy so much as intensely private, which made her current situation disconcerting.
She was vain enough to wonder for the umpteenth time if her clothing was right. Hopefully, the dark-navy suit would convey professionalism to the audience. She’d pinned her long blond hair into a loose twist, but several strands had fallen free. Her stomach flip-flopped yet again as she tried to smooth them back into place.
“Five minutes, Dr. Jameson,” a masculine-looking woman in jeans and a T-shirt said as she adjusted the microphone attached to her bulky headset.
Molly nodded and smiled. Outwardly she hoped to appear cool and calm and tried not to think that she might be the very first person to throw up live on Montana’s most popular morning news show.
Her eyes darted around the chaotic television studio. He leaned against the desk in the center of the large room. He had an easy, engaging smile and seemed completely comfortable.
And why wouldn’t he? Chandler Landry was WMON-TV. His image was splashed on buses and billboards all over the place. Tilting her head, Molly studied him from the relative obscurity of her position behind one of three large cameras positioned around the set.
It wasn’t any secret that Chandler Landry was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the greater Helena-Jasper area. He had it all—looks, breeding, money, class and confidence.
Molly gave him serious bonus points in the looks department. He was more than six feet of sculpted muscle and genetic perfection wrapped in a perfectly tailored designer suit. His skin was deeply tanned but not leathery. His eyes were light brown, rimmed in dark, inky lashes. The only flaw—if she could call it that—was a slightly crooked smile. But it wasn’t really a flaw. Nope, it was endearing and completely nonthreatening. On any other man, it would have been a sneer. But on Chandler it added an innocent allure that gave him that air of boyish charm.
“We’re coming out of commercial,” headset woman said, motioning Molly toward the brightly lit set. “Follow me.”
Molly did, feeling all of her insecurities knot in the pit of her belly. Silently she cursed Gavin Templesman. Only her beloved mentor could have conned her into doing this silly segment. Gavin knew how she felt about being in the public eye. He also knew how badly she wanted her book to succeed. She wanted to help people. That didn’t mean she wanted to sit under a circle of hot lights and have the intrusive camera trained on her face for the next ten minutes. She knew her stuff. Saying something inappropriate or becoming tongue-tied wasn’t going to be a problem for her. No matter how much she disliked the artifice of the television studio.
No, what she didn’t enjoy was the feeling of vulnerability and discomfort she felt as Chandler Landry strolled across the set toward her. She folded her hands loosely in her lap as she watched him approach, willing her erratic heartbeat to slow and her breathing to remain even. Hard to imagine, but he was even better looking in person than on her twenty-seven-inch screen at home.
She hoped he wasn’t a shaking-hands kinda guy. Her palms were slightly damp. Which annoyed her no end.
“Dr. Jameson,” Chandler greeted with a smile that she felt all the way to her toes.
She subtly brushed her right hand on her skirt before taking the hand he offered and struggled to keep her knees from buckling. Up close, Chandler was a devastating sight to behold. The faint scent of his cologne was as intriguing as the fact that his palm was slightly callused. Why would a pretty boy have calluses?
“Mr. Landry,” she greeted, forcing a lightness to her tone. “I feel like I know you already.”
“Most people do,” he replied easily. “The price you pay for being invited into the homes of viewers day in and day out.”
“We all have our crosses to bear,” she countered, dropping his hand.
“We’re back in fifteen,” a voice thundered through the studio.
Chandler held out a chair for her, presenting Molly with what she assumed was her first in a series of humiliations. In spite of her heels, she was forced to climb up on to the stool, and her perfectly professional navy pumps fell about an inch shy of the foot bar.
“Ten seconds, Chandler.”
He rolled her into place. “Sit on the back of your jacket,” Chandler suggested. “It looks better on camera.”
“I thought I was here to give advice to your callers,” she said as she adjusted the bunched lapels of her suit.
He clipped a microphone to the creamy silk tie that complemented his gunmetal-gray shirt. “This is television, sweetheart. Ninety percent of it is how you look.”
“How positively shallow,” she muttered as she scooted the hem of her jacket beneath her hips. Sweetheart? What a condescending ass.
“People don’t tune in for ugly.”
“In five,” the bodyless voice announced.
“Lucky for you.”
Chandler tossed her an easy smile. “Thanks, I think.”
“In four.”
Molly felt like a few thousand nerve endings wired for sound. While the studio was relatively quiet, everyone was watching the two of them. She felt like a zoo exhibit, and had to force herself not to fiddle with her hair and clothes. Something she rarely did. She was uncomfortably self-conscious and hoped to God it didn’t show. She took a deep calming breath and let it out slowly.
Better.
“Three.”
Her breathing was fine. It was her heart rate that was the problem. Nerves, anticipation and, damn it, the close proximity of Chandler Landry had her hyperaware. How did I allow myself to get talked into this?
“Two.”
Chandler patted her hand just as one of the large cameras wheeled closer to them. “Good luck, Doc.”
Headset woman brought her hand down and pointed at Chandler just as a large red light came on above the teleprompter attached to the camera lens.
“Good morning, again, Montana. I’m here in the studio this morning with author and psychiatrist Martha Jameson.”
Molly felt a trickle of perspiration dribble down between her shoulder blades. Part of it was the bright lights but most of it was palpable, intense fear.
“Dr. Jameson’s latest book,” Chandler continued, holding her book up as he spoke. “The Relationship Mambo, has just been released by University Press. Good morning, Dr. Jameson.”
“Good morning,” she replied in a hideously scratched voice.
“I was reading your book last night and I was struck by the fact that you advocate casual physical encounters in this day and age.”
Leave it to a man to focus on the sex parts. Out of context, of course. This was going to be the longest ten minutes of her life. “Actually,” she began, treading the waters between being pissed and terrified. “You’ve misstated my position.” She ignored the dark flash in his eyes. “Sexuality is part of human nature. And while the ideal situation would be physical intimacy as part of a meaningful, committed relationship, that isn’t always practical. The chapter you referred to is a discussion of the double standard that exists in our society. I was simply stating my opinion that women should take ownership over their sexuality just as men have done since the dawn of time.”
“That’s great in theory, but doesn’t society frown on women being promiscuous?”
“I’m not advocating promiscuity, Mr. Landry. I’m acknowledging that women have the same physical needs as men.” And apparently the same homicidal tendencies, Molly thought, wanting to smack that smug smile off his handsome face. Strangely, her heartbeat felt just fine and dandy now.
Great looking—yes. But smug, arrogant and very sure he was the be all and end all for any woman he met.
Nice try, Molly thought, narrowing her eyes slightly, but no cigar. It would take a better man than you are, Gunga Din.
Chandler smiled and winked. “Let’s hope every woman out there adopts your philosophy. Dr. Jameson will answer any of your relationship questions. Call the number at the bottom of your screen.” Chandler flipped her book open to a premarked page. He glanced down, then looked at her from under his brows as if surprised. “You also advocate divorce, Dr. Jameson.”
Molly’s blood boiled as she tried to maintain her fake smile. “Again you’ve misinterpreted my position.” Read for comprehension, pretty boy! “I advocate divorce in situations where there is abuse, both physical and emotional.”
“Or lack of love,” he read.
“Which is a form of emotional abuse, Mr. Landry. Relationships are living things. They need fuel to survive. If there is no love, the relationship withers and dies.” Which is exactly what I’d like to have happen to you!
“You don’t confine your advice to men and women,” he continued. “You write extensively about parent-child relationships, as well. Do you have children, Dr. Jameson?”
“No. My book is based on research and almost a decade as a therapist.”
“Isn’t it hard for you to hold yourself out as an authority on children when you’ve never had any of your own?”
“Psychiatrists often can’t have firsthand knowledge of a given situation. For example, a doctor doesn’t have to beat his wife in order to understand the dynamic of spousal abuse.”
He gave her a slight nod of recognition. “We’ve got John on line one. Go ahead, John.”
“Yes,” a deep voice crackled through the studio. “My life sucks.”
“This is morning television, John,” Chandler warned politely. “Watch the language.”
“Anyway,” John’s voice sounded annoyed and tense. “I’ve got a crappy job. My mother’s always ragging me. The government screwed me.”
“Doctor?” Chandler interrupted. He gave Molly a “help me” look.
“John, it sounds to me like you’re overwhelmed right now. I suggest you take some ‘me’ time.”
“I can’t. I need my lousy job to pay my bills. And my mother needs me. I do everything for her.”
Molly heard the anger and torment in the voice. “You have to make a choice, John. I hear your frustration. When we’re in that place, it affects everything we do. You have to take responsibility for your own happiness. If your job is making you miserable, then find another job. As for your mother, give yourself permission to take a break.”
“She needs me.”
“That may well be. But you need you, too. Once you’re happy and fulfilled, you’ll find that the other pieces of your life fall into place. Find something that will make you happy, John. One thing. Then do it.”
“We’ve got to take the next caller, John, good luck,” Chandler said, pressing one of the blinking lights on the phone in front of him. He greeted the caller by name as provided by his producer.
Chandler smiled over at the small woman with the authoritative tone. She was too damned cute to be such a tight ass. He’d actually found her book enlightening, insightful even. His producer had insisted he mention the section on sex. The plan had been to mention it once to please the higher-ups, and then move on. Then he saw Molly Jameson.
She was a prim, professional package at serious odds with the frank discussion on sexuality he’d read. This, of course, was far, far sexier. There was something incredibly appealing about this woman. He guessed she was much more than a pretty face hidden beneath a layer of navy linen.
Chandler had to struggle to look interested as the next few callers chimed in. Three women involved with losers who couldn’t or wouldn’t stop the cycle of the dead-end relationship. To her credit, Molly seemed to be taking it all in stride.
“…time for you to put a period on this relationship and move on,” Molly advised. “Don’t look at it as a failure, think of the two years you spent with Tony as a learning experience.”
“Thank you.”
Chandler listened as his producer’s voice boomed in his ear, then said, “Dr. Jameson, our first caller, John, is calling back.”
“Hello again, John,” she said.
Chandler watched as she wiped her damp palms across her lap. Odd that such a confident woman should be so uncomfortable on camera.
“I took your advice,” the caller stated.
“That’s good, John,” Molly replied, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Hey, John?” Chandler asked, “You only called a few minutes ago. How did you change your life in such a short period of time?”
“I did what she said,” John answered. “I just killed my mother.”
Chapter Two
“It worked! They bought it.” Feeling triumphant and high on success, he looked at his companion.
Approval. Admiration. Reading that in those eyes eased the rapid pounding of his heart. He felt fortified, bolstered. Because he’d done his part perfectly, the plan was in motion.
“Patience, son.”
Oh, for— He didn’t want to be patient. Not anymore. Patient sucked. It was his time, damn it! His turn. Without responding to the unnecessary caution, he rose and went into the tiny, galley-style kitchen and ran water over his hands until the stream went from red, to pink, to clear. Grabbing the vegetable brush his mother kept in a frog on the lip of the sink, he began scrubbing at his finger tips. Who knew it would be so hard to get blood out from under his nails?
How like his mother to be a pain in the ass even in death.
His companion stood, collected his briefcase and brought it over to the kitchen table. The metal locks clicked loudly as he depressed the tabs. “This should tide you over through the next phase.”
Drying his hands, he moved to ogle the tidy rows of money displayed neatly in the open leather briefcase. Wiping his palms down the leg of his pants first, he lifted one banded stack of bills. Heavier than he’d’ve thought. His heartbeat sped up as he fanned the crisp notes, enjoying the breeze created against his face. “This is great.”
His companion pulled the money from his grip and dropped it back into the case with an authoritative plop. He closed the lid and snapped the locks back in place. As if he had the right. As if he still owned the money. “This is to be used as we agreed.”
“I know.” Of course he knew. Hadn’t he gone over and over this countless times? He wasn’t a moron. Still, as much as he resented it, he craved the man’s approval.
“You must stay focused. Too much is at stake here.” His expression softened as he returned the cash. Next, he reached beneath the bills and took out a metal rod with a circular emblem welded to one end. “You know what to do?”
Once again he felt torn; irritated by the implication that he didn’t know what he was doing, and then annoyed by his need for approval. He nodded stiffly. “I rigged the propane tank out back.” Why did he always have to explain himself? Hadn’t he proven that he was loyal and capable? The right choice to lead them toward their destiny? Hadn’t he made the ultimate sacrifice?
“Can I trust you to handle the rest of the arrangements on your own?”
“Of course,” he answered, resentment building at always having his abilities questioned. “I’ve got it under control.”
His companion nodded, turned to leave, then hesitated. “There is much at stake.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. “I know that.” Feeling more in control, now that he had the money and he’d accomplished the biggest hurdle, he reined in his temper. This powerful man would see a display of temper as a sign of weakness. Just you wait, he thought, feeling smug and self-satisfied as he stood, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes downcast. Just you freaking wait. Soon he’d be the one making all the decisions. He’d be the big man in charge.
That was the goal.
That was his destiny.
He was so close to making his goal a reality.
“SPEAKING FROM EXPERIENCE, I don’t agree.”
“It was a prank, Dr. Jameson,” Chandler insisted. “Do you have any idea how many times this sort of thing has happened in the past?”
Molly squared her shoulders, feeling mildly annoyed that she had to tilt her head back in order to hold his gaze. He was the most annoying man. And the prime reason she felt that way, she had to admit, was her body’s visceral reaction to him. His insistence that the man on the phone had been pulling a prank was, in her professional judgment, a huge mistake. The caller had sounded not only completely sincere, he’d sounded triumphant.
The fact that she was both annoyed and strangely attracted to Landry bugged the hell out of her. There weren’t two more diametrically opposed people on the planet. “You have people committing and confessing to murders on air often, do you?” Molly demanded, trying to drag her libido back in line. Plenty of men had sparkling brown eyes and long dimples in their lean cheeks. Landry looked as though he had a delicious secret.
Molly didn’t care to find out what that might be.
He was good-looking. So what? Jasper had hundreds of good-looking men.
He rolled those chocolate-colored eyes at her pithy comment, and made a dismissive sound that made her want to smack his smugly handsome face. A reaction that horrified her. Not only didn’t she have a temper—under normal circumstances—but her training had taught her the pitfalls of physical violence. In under an hour this man had turned her into someone she didn’t recognize.
She took a deep, calming breath and reminded herself that Chandler was a news reader, hardly in a position to assess the seriousness of a mentally disturbed person appropriately. “He—”
Chandler cut her off. “People seek attention, Molly. It’s a risk and a reality on live TV. It was probably just some fool getting his kicks at our expense.”
“I didn’t get that sense,” she replied, keeping her voice reasonable with an effort.
“We’ve got to clear the studio,” Chandler gathered his script sheets into a pile and stood. “Let’s go back to my office. We can wait for Seth there. I’m sure it was a joke,” he assured her for the umpteenth time. Her gray-green eyes narrowed as she looked up at him, and he saw she wasn’t going for his theory one bit. He sighed inwardly. She was a shrink. Hell, she’d see mental defect in everyone as a matter of course. “Sick,” he said firmly, “but a joke nevertheless.”
Clearly not convinced, Molly frowned slightly as she rose. Chandler didn’t move back as she straightened, so they were closer together than two strangers would feel comfortable with. Her perfume drifted up to him. Something soft and subtle. Roses, he thought. Maybe with a touch of citrus. He stayed where he was, waited to see what Molly would do.
She held her ground. She might not be willing to show that his size and nearness intimidated her, but he sure as hell noticed the sudden increase of her pulse in the creamy hollow of her throat. Points to the lady.
“Maybe,” she said, meeting his eyes unflinchingly. “But he sounded serious to me. I guess that’s the problem with call-in therapy. It’s really hard to diagnose someone as a sociopath over the phone.”
He grinned, nice to meet a shrink with a sense of humor. Normally he found members of her profession way too serious, and frequently screwier than the people they purported to treat. For example their regular guest for the mental health segment Gavin Templesman. Now there was a guy filled with his own self-importance. Knowledgeable but pedantic and superior. Chandler thought the guy was an ass. He figured he should keep that opinion to himself, since he wasn’t clear on the relationship between Templesman and Molly.
The lights in the studio dimmed. A broad hint from the control room.
“Are we going somewhere?” Molly asked pointedly. “Or are we staying here in the dark?”
He wouldn’t mind standing in the dark with Dr. Molly a while longer, but Chandler figured she’d get a little cranky if he didn’t move it.
“My office. He placed his palm against the small of her back to guide her out of the studio and toward his office. The stiffening of her spine was infinitesimal beneath his palm, but she didn’t make a verbal protest. “You must know Dr. Templesman pretty well for him to suggest you fill in for him at the last minute.”
She slanted him a look. “Was that a question?”
Yeah. He wanted to know if the old guy was her lover. Chandler smiled. “Are you partners or something?” Mentally, he added, professional or otherwise?
She blandly replied, “I’ve known him for twelve years,” walking a little bit faster so that his hand fell away from her waist in a silent rebuke. Another point to the lady.
And a nice nonanswer, he thought. Her movement caused some of the silken strands of wheat-blond hair to slip from their neat bundle. His fingers itched to reach out and give a gentle tug, just enough so that her hair spilled over her shoulders. Instead, he shoved one hand into his pocket and dropped the other to his side. Best to keep his hands to himself…at least for now.
He paused at the entrance to his office and ushered her inside with a wave of his hand. “Make yourself comfortable,” he suggested, grabbing two three-quarter-inch tapes off the chair. He put the tapes and his script into the top drawer of his desk. “Seth should be here shortly. Just a formality. While I’m sure the guy wasn’t serious, the station will want to be sure to cover its ass. Just in case.” Everyone was sue happy these days.
The base of his chair squeaked as he dropped into the battered leather cushions that conformed perfectly to his body. His eyes scanned Dr. Molly’s very serious face. She was really pretty—wholesomely pretty, femininely pretty. And pretty much not interested in him, apparently.
This, of course, made Chandler that much more fascinated. Without vanity, he knew he was attractive and attractive to women. It had been a while since his advances, subtle as they were, had been coolly and politely rebuffed.
“You’re staring,” she commented. Her voice was soft, nonthreatening, almost observational. Despite the scrutiny, she neither shifted in her seat nor fidgeted under his perusal. More points to the lady. She was racking them up.
It irritated him a little that he couldn’t get a read on her. Observing people was his forte. He flashed her his best and most effective smile. “You’re a beautiful woman. It’s my job to stare at you. Part of the Man Code.”
No grin, no smile, not even a faint twinkle in her eyes. Flattery didn’t impress her. Okay, he’d try another tack.
“Your book really was quite good.”
Full-on, perfect-teeth smile. Okay, I get it. The way to this woman’s heart was through her intellect.
“Thanks.” A little of the frost left her eyes. “I’m surprised you read it. I’d expect someone like you to glance at the Table of Contents, maybe check out at a few chapter headings.”
Chandler leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs off to the side and crossing them at the ankles. She was really something. What, he wasn’t yet sure. But her quick assessment of him stung. He shot her a cool look. “Someone like me?”
Her cheeks held just a hint of color. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
That wasn’t an apology, he surmised easily. Not a real one. She wasn’t sorry she’d implied that he was too stupid to read, only that telling him as much wasn’t supposed to be offensive.
“I like to read,” he replied easily. “I’m especially fond of books with lots of colorful pictures.”
Her cheekbones flamed. “I…I.” She snapped her mouth shut as her brain scrambled for a way out. But there wasn’t one. Taking a deep breath, she met his dark eyes and admitted, “You’re right. That was an unkind way to put it. But the truth is, you’ve got a reputation as someone who, well, who…who…”
“Isn’t too bright?”
She felt herself cringe. “Well, people don’t usually mention your IQ, Mr. Landry. Any time you make the papers, there’s usually mention of the fact that you’re gorgeous and single. Montana’s Second Most Eligible Bachelor, as I recall?”
“Imagine how pissed off I was at not being named number one,” he countered. “And yes, I’m aware of the focus often placed on my appearance, but then, I work in a visual medium, so I can’t really complain.”
“I suppose not,” Molly agreed. “I shouldn’t have accepted the stereotype so easily. I do apologize.” And boy, did she hate doing it too. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she told herself. Making a thoughtless comment like that to a man like this, was tantamount to poking a sharp stick through the bars of a lion’s cage just to hear him roar. She knew better.
Chandler simply shrugged. Well, it wasn’t all that simple. Not when the fabric of his jacket pulled taut against broad, hard muscle. Molly swallowed and willed her brain not to dwell on his physical attributes.
“Most of the time my, er, celebrity is a bonus. I can get into most of the decent restaurants without a prior reservation and I can usually find a date on short notice.”
Molly mentally rolled her eyes but kept her gaze steady and her hands neatly in her lap. “Two important life skills,” she told him dryly.
“That was pretty snippy,” he said without even a hint of annoyance. “How about I get us some coffee?”
“That would be great,” she agreed readily. Maybe a shot of caffeine would improve her mood.
Chandler rose from behind his desk, a large, powerful, charming male in his prime. Her mouth went dry. She inspected a slight hangnail on her thumb as he walked past her chair and disappeared. Leaving her free to explore his small, tidy office. She took a couple of quick, necessary breaths to control her heart rate. The man was potent.
She glanced around his office. The first thing that struck her was the organization. It wasn’t just orderly; it was Obsessive-Compulsive-Disorder neat. His functional desk was gray laminate and formed an “L” shape out from the wall. He’d divided it into two separate and distinct areas. The portion facing the door was devoid of anything but the telephone. Not a pencil, not a scrap of paper, nothing. Just the telephone. With a perfectly coiled cord. Very precise.
